Day 35 Dead by 9:30 am
I’m sitting in my car in the Surrey Guildford parking lot, enjoying an Americano misto and some sushi, re-reading Rhoda Janzen’s Mennonite in a Little Black Dress. I promised to take my youngest daughter and her friend shopping, the capper to a girls’ weekend, and their stamina is about two hours longer than mine, and the Starbucks seats are darned uncomfortable.
Besides, it’s kind of fun watching cars come and go in the spots beside me. People jump, startled and a bit embarrassed when they notice me sitting motionless next to them, staring behind my sunglasses. Apparently not a lot of people sit in their cars in parking lots.
Anyway, due to the shopping trip, I did an early class today. Normally, I’m militant about not getting up early on Sundays, having spent, like Rhoda Janzen, much of my childhood in church. Enough that I figure I’ve earned lazy Sunday mornings for the rest of my life.
But today, I got up early. And the universe punished me for it.
Perhaps I was cocky yesterday. Maybe I got overly confident, flexing my yogic karma too much, so that it had to spring back, like a rubber band. Whatever it was, there was nothing rubber-like about my hamstrings; more like cold saltwater taffy, ready to shatter instead of pull.
The girls were chomping at the bit to go as soon as I staggered into the house, so I hustled in and out of the shower, knowing I’d have time to relax once they were set loose on the mall. My second-born daughter, with whom I suffered in the hot room this morning, asked me with sympathy, “Won’t it be great when you don’t have to drive kids around anymore?”
The truth is, I don’t really mind. My kids are so appreciative, I enjoy doing things for them. This is part of my problem these days – there’s less and less for me to do for them, and with them. And I miss it. (Not always, mind you, but we’re talking trends.) I enjoy their company and they seem comfortable in mine. They listen to my stories, they laugh at my jokes, they tell me about their lives, they ask me questions. And it’s not like they’re looking at their watches or texting someone while they’re doing it. They’re with me entirely, and I am cognizant of the rare treasure that this is.
I know how lucky I am.
And I’m so dreading the days when this easy camaraderie is over. I miss my oldest daughter so much some days, yet I wouldn’t hold her back from all her experiences in the past years at UBC for anything. I’m so happy for how she’s grown and changed, how much fun she’s having. But I still miss her.
I hope I’m not holding on too tightly, but I probably am. I know my girls worry about me, their crazy mother who feels everything so deeply, who’s compelled to obsess and analyze everything to death. It’s my job to worry about them, not the other way around. And I’m not that crazy.
So no, I don’t mind sitting in a mall parking lot. It’s perfectly comfortable – at least with the windows cracked to diffuse the faint but persistent yoga fug.
And after that, there’s spearmint and eucalyptus epsom salts for me at home, and an evening of Chuck with my youngest, who’s stuck here with me for at least another year, ha-ha!
And I’m going to enjoy it all thoroughly. While I can.
Day 32 Lock-Down
Every living organism has a mechanism to protect itself from harm or threat, from the classic fight-or-flight response, to the more subtle: withdrawal, camouflage, external armour, repellent spray, group safety, etc. These days, our dangers are not primarily physical, no sabre-toothed tigers or warring tribes after us. Yet we go through our days with defenses up: game faces on, bluffs at the ready, jokes and pat answers prepared, because the biggest risk is truth. The biggest gamble, intimacy.
We’ll do almost anything to protect ourselves from vulnerability, but the fact is, we all go through periods of failure, humiliation, gross errors of judgement, uncertainty, ridiculousness, grief, crap-your-pants terror, and, the worst of all:
An audience for our shame.
I’ve been thinking about this kind of stuff lately, and apparently that’s not unusual at this stage of a yoga challenge. Some people, I’ve heard, react on an emotional level to this deeper physical work. Opening up, as it were, from bones to skin.
We’re talking tears. I’m a cry-er at the best of times. The worst of times? Watch out. I was dehydrated before the opening credits of PS: I Love You had finished scrolling. I will NEVER watch City of Angels again. I’ve wept my way through books, conversations, therapy sessions, solitary walks, funerals (of course), weddings (not all tears are sad tears). So yeah, I’ve felt a little teary lately.
I find myself craving intimacy, while being too tired or sore, or afraid, to let down my guard enough to seek it out. It’s so hard to trust that the people around us won’t hurt us. It’s easier to pretend we don’t care, that it doesn’t matter, that we never expected more anyway.
So we laugh it off, send back a “joke” in return. We pull up our armour, tighten our masks and tell ourselves we’re tough, we can take it. Only we can’t, not always, and when we pretend, something inside us withers just a little. We go into lock-down.
Trust is hard for good reason. We’re a thoughtless, self-centered, and sometimes mean-spirited species, and yes, we do stuff in our worst moments that we’re ashamed of in our best moments.
But we’re also kind. We can be, at least.
It’s another type of risk, kindness, but it can break the cycle of mistrust, chip away a little bit of the armour that keeps us from seeing each other. Like a warm bath for sore muscles, kindness eases the armour loose, until it drops away and we can face each other in all our warts and wrinkles, our failings and weaknesses.
Free. Honest. Real.
Day 31 And Now For Something Completely Different…
I’m off to a morning class, but this is in honour of my hubby, who’s taken the plunge into, wait for it: FACEBOOK.
Yes, the “never, never” man couldn’t stand being left out anymore.
You’ll like this, it’s called Failbook, a riff on the funniest or stupidest Facebook profiles. Enjoy!